


Bad, Bad Budapest

by Rinkafic



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinkafic/pseuds/Rinkafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn’t like Budapest, even before the latest mission.  Then the mission starts to go bad.</p><p> Inspired by <a href="http://thefixedfoot.livejournal.com/39203.html?style=mine#cutid1">this artwork</a> by azuremonkey</p><p>Art Made for the story by Azuremonkey<br/></p><div class="center">
  <img/>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Bad, Bad Budapest

The first mission Clint ever went on as an official S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent was to Budapest. That was back in 2006, during the protests that rocked the Hungarian government. Barton could have cared less about the politics, he was there to do a job. There was a ruckus in the streets that nearly derailed his mission, which had annoyed him greatly. He had found the target, done what he had been sent there to do and left with a bad taste in his mouth for the city and the people that had nearly screwed up his first task for his new employers. 

Needless to say, when he heard they were heading to one of his least favorite travel destinations, he had been disappointed. More than disappointed, he’d gotten a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that had yet to dissipate.

“The bastard is getting away. Take the shot, H.”

“I’m on it,” he grumbled into the microphone pick up on his collar.

There was irritation in Natasha’s voice as she snapped, “He. Is. Getting. Away. Shoot.”

“I’m not deaf, I heard you. Do I tell you how to do your job?”

“As a matter of fact...”

Phil came on the line, prompting Clint to sigh heavily. He really, really preferred working alone. Having both his partner and their handler along was trying his patience. “If he gets away, we’ll lose the assembly control unit. We won’t get another chance at this.”

“I said I’ve got it,” Clint growled. 

He raised his bow, sighted down the arrow once more and prepared to fire. He had been waiting for the target to cross in front of the alleyway, so that when he felled the guy, he’d be thrown in between the buildings and attract less attention. Surely Natasha could have figured that out, even if Phil had not.

Before he could fire, there was a low growl behind him, followed by a loud snarl. And then he was tumbling over the edge of the building, his shot gone wild, his bow skidding along the roof ledge to catch on a water spout, where it dangled as precariously as Clint himself. He had one hand wrapped around a cable strung between the buildings that he had been lucky enough to catch as he fell. “Mayday!” he hissed, knowing the sensitive mic would pick it up. This sucked. Only his early circus training and preternatural reflexes kept him from losing his grip and falling to the street below. He swung his legs, trying to get enough momentum going to swing over and grab hold of the fire ladder bolted to the wall. 

“What’s happening, H?” Phil asked. He was on the ground, in a cafe not far down the street. If Coulson stepped outside and looked up, he could probably see Clint flailing around over the street with his naked eyes. So let him do that, Clint was busy.

He couldn’t see his assailant, but he could hear him. Heaving breathing, an animal-like panting, came from the direction of the ledge above him. Whatever had toppled him might not be entirely human, something he had come to accept as reality since becoming an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D. He had heard nothing coming up behind him until the thing had growled. Not good. Either he was slipping or this thing had skills.

“Lost... the.. shot,” he warned his partners. They couldn’t do much to help him at the moment, but they might be able to salvage the job. Hopefully one of them could acquire the transmitter. He was never going to live this down. Never. He managed to get a grip on the wire with his other hand. Uncertain of his attacker’s ability or agility, he didn’t dare swing himself up onto the wire, this was no time for acrobatics. He’d be a target there - bird on a wire - and easily picked off. The ladder was a safer bet.

“What do you mean you lost the shot, H?” Phil demanded.

“Busy dying... up.. here.” He gasped as he swung his body towards the wall. “Talk later.”

A catlike snarl ripped through the air. Great. “Nice... kitty... kitty,” he rasped, knowing it was pointless, the thing was stalking him. His foot touched the rung on the ladder. He’d be able to catch it on the next swing. Bracing himself in anticipation of the impact that was to come, he caught the rung with his foot, hooked it under and let go of the wire, just as a heavy form catapulted past where he had been hanging. Too busy trying not to die to pay attention to anything else, he didn’t see where the shadow went. His back slammed against the ladder and he twisted to grab it with both hands and slide down to the first fire escape landing. 

Clint was panting heavily as he crouched on the fire escape and searched the darkness for his assailant. He saw a dark shadow, moving along the wire as he had been unwilling to do. It would have made him too easy of a target, not that dangling upside down from a ladder had been much better. It was moving away from him, getting away from him. Crap. There was another player on the field and he had no clue who or what it was. His bow was way out of reach. He pulled his sidearm and tried to target the thing, but it hit the shadows cast by the buildings and even he, with his excellent eyesight, couldn’t see it. 

“I’ve got the package,” Natasha reported, sounding very ticked off. “What the hell is going on up there?” Yeah, she was pissed off, all right.

“Something knocked me off the building. I lost it, gone now.” Damn, he hated admitting that.

She wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. “You okay?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you in ten.” 

Coulson clicked in and echoed Tasha’s sign off, “Roger that.”

He climbed over the railing of the fire escape and went towards the ladder to the roof, intent on retrieving his bow. As he hauled himself up to the ledge, he heard the telltale click of a weapon being cocked. “Crap,” he muttered as he heard the report of the bullet firing a millisecond before he felt the burning impact against his forehead. There was a quick, blinding flash and then the world, already dark in the Hungarian night, went completely black and he felt himself falling.

~*~

“You are one very lucky sonofabitch,” Natasha said, uncrossing her legs and tossing the magazine she had been reading onto the foot of his bed. She moved to stand beside the bed, looking down at him. “You should be very dead, again.” Her words were harsh, but there was relief in her eyes as she stared at him. Natasha’s eyes were very often the only truthful thing about her, and you had to know how to read her to interpret that truth properly. Others frequently misread her, which was, in her line of work, a useful tool.

Her hand grasped his and squeezed. “You landed on the fire escape.”

“You came back for me.” He was slowly starting to feel his wounds as the sedatives that had been keeping him under wore off. Fuzzy and numb was giving way to sore and achy.

“I’ll always come back for you, Clint,” she whispered, and he knew it was the truth. 

He raised a hand to find a bandage wrapped around his head. A nurse poked her head through the door and saw that he was awake. She said something he didn’t understand and spun away, her rubber soled shoes squeaking on the tile floor in the hallway. “What’d she say?” he mumbled to Tasha, trusting her to translate.

“She’s getting the doctor.”

“Good. My head hurts,” he said, feeling along the edge of the bandage until she slapped his hand away. 

She gave him a look meant to convey, ‘Are you stupid?’ She swatted at his hand again as he tried to push at the bandage again. “You got shot. In the head. Asshole.” When he looked up, he saw real worry in her eyes. It had been close this time. He really should have been dead. Shot in the face at point blank range... why wasn’t he dead?

“Ah, Mister Nesmith. It is good to see you are awake. Please to forgive my English. Your Miss Jones has been very worried for you.”

“When can I leave?” Clint demanded immediately.

The doctor looked shocked. “You are in serious condition, Mister Nesmith. You should be here for some time to recuperate.”

“Miss Jones has engagements, a performance schedule to adhere to, I cannot be loitering in a hospital just because I have a cut on my head. She can’t be roaming the streets of Budapest alone and unprotected.” He was supposed to be her bodyguard. As if the Black Widow needed a bodyguard. But it was an excuse to stay near her as she moved about the city, he needed to stick to their cover story as much as possible. He tried to push the sheet off himself and sit up.

“You just settle down!” Coulson barked from the doorway. He came in, bearing two cups of coffee, Clint could smell it and it made him want a cup. The look in Phil’s eyes as he glared at him was hard to decipher, one he had not seen before in all the time Phil had been his primary handler.

The doctor looked relieved to see Phil. “Ah, Mister Tork. Good, good, perhaps you can persuade your brother in law to allow us to continue our tests?”

Brother in law? Coulson had deviated from their script. His brain must not be completely scrambled; he realized then that Phil must have lied in order to authorize his medical care and get himself and Natasha access to his room. She thumped his arm with her fingers to get his attention and waggled a diamond ring for Clint to see. Then she clutched his hand and gushed dramatically in an exaggerated New York accent, “Oh, Mike, I was so afraid for you! I thought I’d lost you. What a horrible, horrible thing, to be mugged like that! And here I thought we’d be safe outside New York.” 

So, they were playing it off as a mugging gone wrong. He could do that, no problem. He eyed the second cup of coffee longingly as Phil handed it to Tasha.

“The bullet only grazed you. As the pain medication wears off, I am sure you will feel the other injuries you sustained when you fell. A terrible thing to happen on the eve of your wedding,” the doctor remarked, looking at his chart.

“Yeah, terrible.” He touched his hand to the bandage again and both Tasha and Phil reached over and slapped at him at the same time.

Coulson glared at him, that weird something still in his eyes. “Leave that alone... Mike.” Ha! Phil had almost stumbled over his cover name. They had a running bet, anyone that screwed up a cover name on a mission bought steaks for all of them at Ruth Chris in New York, it was an expensive goof to make.

“When can I leave?” Clint asked the doctor again.

The doctor sighed. “If the results of the last tests are showing no serious injury, then perhaps we can release you tomorrow. You will need to rest.”

Right, sure. Rest. He nodded, which made his eye twitch as the pain hit him. He sucked at resting in a bed under the best of circumstances. They had a mission to carry out. Following doctor’s orders would require a firm application of the good drugs. No sooner had he finished the thought than a nurse came in and jabbed him with a syringe before he could protest.

“Peter can go back to the hotel with you tomorrow while I go to rehearsals,” Natasha said. “Nicholas will be very angry if I do not turn up when he expects me.” 

She was trying to tell him that Fury was in the city for the handoff. At least Natasha had salvaged that part of the mission. “You’ll give him what he wants, of course,” Clint replied.

“Of course.” Good, she still had the package.

He felt sleepy suddenly and the doctor’s next words went over his head.  
Huh, quick drugs. The fuzzy feeling came back. He needed to close his eyes for just a minute.

~*~

Natasha wasn’t there in the morning when they reluctantly released him against the doctor’s advisement. But he was not actively bleeding or vomiting so they let him go. He shuffled along beside Phil, squinting at the bright sunlight when they hit the sidewalk outside the hospital lobby. Coulson reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and tugged out a pair of mirrored sunglasses and passed them over without a word.

The cab smelled like cheap tobacco, sour milk and piss. He sank into the back seat of the taxi with a heavy sigh as Phil gave the driver directions to the hotel. He was in worse shape than he had thought. “Ow,” he whispered to Phil.

“Just a few minutes until we get to the hotel,” Coulson replied. 

The ride was hell. The malicious little driver hit every bump in Budapest, Clint was certain of it. He ended up leaning against Coulson to brace himself as best he could in an attempt to keep his pounding head steady. 

The elevator ride was another level of hell, he hated enclosed spaces, and the moving enclosed space grated on his last nerve. He usually took the stairs, but with his head in so much pain, there was no way he would make up fourteen flights. Coulson stood close, pressing against his arm, offering silent support. Phil knew, he understood. He said nothing, no smart remarks, no teasing about this thing he had with elevators, which Clint appreciated.

He stumbled into the room and went straight to the sofa, dropping down onto it and putting his throbbing head back against a pillow he squashed between his neck and the sofa back.

“Bed?”

“Too much bed at the hospital, this is fine,” he replied quietly. 

Phil sat beside him, his leg pressed against Clint’s. His partner’s voice was tight, almost brittle as he told him, “I went up and got your bow, it’s in with the rest of your gear. You spilled your quiver, I collected eleven arrows on the sidewalk and fire escape.”

“Good, thanks. One shot went astray when I got rolled.”

“Who was it?” A pair of pills was pressed into his palm and a cold glass of water materialized to chase the pills down.

“Something catlike. Big. It growled and snarled at me. Walked the cable like a tightrope and got away.” He downed the pills and gulped the water, too sore to refuse, screw his ego.

“Did you see the shooter?”

“No. Too dark. Black on black, just saw the flash of the shot.”

Coulson patted his leg as Clint started to doze. “We have people investigating quietly. I can arrange an extraction for you, if you want.”

“Nah. I’ll see it through. Thanks, though.”

A little while later, he felt himself sliding over, stopped by Phil’s shoulder, which was right there. Since he’d met him, Phil had fallen into the habit of doing that, always being right there. It was kind of nice. Comfortable, in a way he hadn’t had comfortable before.

He felt safe enough to sleep. Phil had his back.

~*~

When he jerked awake suddenly, Phil was gone. Tasha was there, staring at him, making her own assessment of his condition, he presumed. There had been a sandwich on a tray in front of him on the coffee table. Natasha tossed her chin in the direction of the food and glared at him until he ate. When he finished, she slid from her chair, took him by the arm and hauled him off the couch and over to the bedroom. She fed him more pills and pushed him to the bed. Tasha hated nurse duty almost as much as Clint despised needing a nurse.

In the morning, he was alone. Presumably, his partners had gone to make the handoff to Fury without him, leaving him to sleep. That was fine, he didn’t need to see the boss. They had one more component to collect before they could leave Budapest behind. 

After picking at the remnants of a breakfast tray they had left for him, he showered and applied a new bandage, then braced himself to get back to the mission. 

He hailed a cab and headed over to the Opera House, Tasha’s rehearsal was supposed to be over soon. The guy on the stage door recognized him and let him in without a problem, his cover as Natasha’s bodyguard slash one man security team gaining him access. 

He silently made his way down the darkened aisle as the director pounded his walking stick on the stage up front to get the attention of the dancers. He could see perfectly in the theatre, thanks to a bit of tech masquerading as sunglasses, provided by S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint easily found the program tucked between seat numbers twelve and fourteen where it was supposed to be. There must not have been an opportunity for Tasha to swing by and pick it up yet today. Opening it, he scanned the bottom of each page, memorizing the numbers scrawled there, just in case he and the paper, by necessity, became permanently separated. The notes were from their contact here in the city, map locations of the drop of the last chunk of tech. Industrial espionage left a bad taste in Clint’s mouth, but according to Fury, they needed to take down the company producing this particular machine, for whatever reason the Directorate had decided. In order to do that, they had to steal the prototype of the next great thing the company was producing. Someone had told him what it was during the mission briefing, but he hadn’t been paying much attention. If he needed to know what it did for any reason, Phil would tell him.

“How is it that a visitor, a stranger, can do this stock routine perfectly while the company cannot? This I do not understand!” The director berated the dancers and pointed to Natasha. His partner was standing slightly to the side, one graceful hand on her hip as she breathed slowly, relaxing after going through the paces of the last routine, which she had, as the director pointed out, performed perfectly.

As expected, being singled out drew the ire of the other dancers. There were hateful glares tossed her way from the other ballerinas. But Natasha didn’t care, she would not be here long, this was just a cover. The blonde hair, slicked back into a ponytail, was jarringly out of place on her, he missed her red curls and couldn’t wait for her to dye it back to the way it should be. Clint’s own scalp had burned for two days when she had insisted on dying his hair too for the op - claiming she didn’t want to suffer alone in her blondeness. Phil had escaped the bottle by virtue of being at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters at the time - and not having as much hair to dye. 

Davina Jones, with her faked credentials from the Met, needed to be different than the Natasha Romanov that had once danced across this same stage when the Bolshoi had visited Budapest, where she had first met a much younger Clint Barton. That had been his second ill-fated trip to Budapest, and she had saved his life back then, cementing their friendship. They could not afford for the two ballerinas to be linked, it would blow their cover and alert people to Natasha’s presence in Budapest. They could not afford the mess that would make of the mission. 

The ballet was a good cover for the agents; Phil acting as her business manager, had more mobility and could come and go as needed. After performing at the Budapest Opera House for a limited engagement, the company was scheduled to go to the United States to play the Met. They would hopefully have the second piece of the device long before then. Her faked credentials would not stand up on her alleged home ground in New York City. Davina Jones needed to have her ‘tragic accident’ before the troupe’s departure. Or now that they were supposedly engaged, maybe they could just run off and “elope” to get her out.

Clint thought briefly about the people that had attacked him on the roof. He wondered if they worked for the Ralmshant Corporation? 

The music resumed and the dancers took their positions. Clint settled back in his seat to watch. His eyes were only for his partner, he wasn’t a ballet aficionado, but he loved to watch her dance. Tasha was so graceful up there on the stage, perfection, in his eyes. When he had tried to compliment her on it once, she waved him off and claimed she didn’t have the soul for it, that something had died a long time ago within her. When it did, it took away her taste for the dance, there was no joy in it for her anymore. It no longer fed her soul as it once had. For her, ballet was merely exercise now, something she did to stay in practice and keep her form for occasions like this, when she needed to fall back on the older skillset. He still found it beautiful, found her beautiful, despite her protests. 

The radio crackled in his ear. “Do you have the numbers?”

“Coming.”

“Stop oogling the princess and get your butt in gear,” Phil snapped. It was eerie sometimes how he did that. He was miles away, without eyes in this building and yet he knew exactly what Clint was up to. He didn’t bother protesting, Phil would catch him out in the lie; Coulson was a human lie detector.

Reluctantly, he climbed up out of his seat as the director screamed at the dancers to stop because apparently, they still sucked. He waved to Natasha, who smiled at him. If she had any information for him, she would likely have played the silly, infatuated fiance and run over to gush all over him and pass it along. She held her place on stage, however, which told Clint she had nothing to tell him.

He met up with Coulson at the cafe down the street and slipped him the program, which the handler quickly scanned and committed to memory. “You have a shadow,” Phil said quietly and casually as he sipped at his coffee. 

“Crap. I’m slipping,” he admitted. Phil was probably the only one, aside from Natasha, that he could admit something like that to and not completely lose face.

“I was watching for it. They’re good. Staying high, keeping to the rooftops,” Phil replied. He set his coffee cup down and leaned across the table. “I want to have you pulled. You’re still recuperating. You’re made, I’m worried for you.”

Clint shrugged. “If they made me, then you’re tagged too, now. We both stay or we both go.”

Phil sighed and sat back, the hand holding the coffee cup was trembling. A rare show of nerves. “If anything happened to either of you... I don’t think I could do this anymore. Things are different now. When I saw you up there on that fire escape... when I saw all the blood, I thought you were dead and I almost freaked.” Phil was skirting the edge of dangerous talk, they could have ears on them now. They probably did. When Clint frowned and tugged his earlobe pointedly as a reminder, Coulson tapped the face of his watch. He had a scrambler on, jamming any listening devices pointed their way. “I wouldn’t want to do this anymore.”

That was the closest thing to an open declaration of affection Clint was ever going to get from Coulson. “I’m fine. This isn’t the time,” he said, a light warning in his voice.

“You almost bought it. I... just let me make the call,” Phil was practically begging, though anyone walking by would just see a business man casually talking to his companion. Clint saw more because he knew better. This mission was going upside down quickly. He was off his game and now Phil’s cheese was slowly sliding off his cracker. All they needed was for Natasha to break and they’d all three of them wind up dead in a ditch on the shady side of Budapest. Luckily, she was possessing of a steel constitution. Natasha never broke. Well, almost never.

He lifted the edge of his sunglasses and stared at Phil. “I think there’s a replay of the game on.” It was code for ‘rendezvous back at the hotel.’ Ending any further conversation, he dropped his glasses back in place and stood up, tossing some euro bills down on the table to cover the check and walking away without looking back. 

Clint wasn’t up to this. This was outside his comfort zone. He hated feelings talk and that’s where Phil had been heading. It was probably where he’d pick up when they got to the hotel room. Why couldn’t things just stay as they were? 

On his guard for the tail Phil had told him he had on him, he doubled around and caught sight of the guy himself. He wondered if it was the shooter or the overgrown pussy cat. Should he go on up and confront them? If he had been in peak condition, he might have. If he had his bow, he would have felt more confident. But the look on Phil’s face earlier, coupled with the worry he had seen in Natasha’s eyes in the hospital made him pause. He wasn’t entirely alone anymore, he had to think about his partners. 

With a grunt of irritation, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Natasha’s phone. She was outside radio range, and she could hardly dance with the mic shoved in her ear. It rang half a dozen times before she picked it up. It had likely been in her gym bag on the floor of the stage. “Mike? Is everything okay? Are you feeling ill, sweetheart?” She spoke for the benefit of anyone listening on her end, keeping up her cover.

“Yeah, baby, I need you. I made it as far as the cafe.” He was really, really beginning to hate Budapest. This was turning out to be his worst outing in years. Maybe he should just take the ticket out that Phil had offered him, let someone else come in to cover Tasha’s back. Even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t trust anyone else for that job.

“I’m coming. Stay there.” She hung up and he leaned back against the wall to wait. 

A few minutes later, the phone in his hand vibrated. “20?”

“Alley, across from the hair salon. I have a shadow, up high, north side of the street.”

“Not for long. Stay put.” She hung up again. He hated being dependant on other people. But they were partners, a team, and he needed to step back this time and let her handle it.

The phone buzzed. “Go and see if you can catch the game.” She had taken care of it; the way was clear. He set off at a brisk pace towards the hotel. 

When he got there, Coulson was waiting, pacing, agitated. He strode across the room and shoved at Clint’s shoulders. “I can’t keep doing this!” He pushed Clint roughly, until his back hit the wall. “You... almost... died,” he punctuated each word with a punch of both fists on Clint’s chest.

Clint let him vent. Better he got it out of his system now. Maybe they should call the mission a bust after all. Two thirds of the team was apparently losing their shit. He tried to catch Phil’s wrists, but Phil evaded him, pulling free and twisting away. He backed off, panting heavily as he glared at Clint. 

“I thought we agreed not to do this kind of thing in the field,” Clint said, trying for lighthearted as he held his hands up in front of him in a warding gesture. 

Wrong thing to say. He had riled Phil up. The other man let out a bellow of rage and charged at Clint, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him towards the bed. He landed on top of him, and they rolled and tumbled off the bed to the floor, Phil punching at him. Say what you might about the guy, Phil could handle himself in a fight. And he was pissed off at the moment. Straddling him, Phil clipped him with a sharp jab to the cheek. Clint tried to shift him off, but he was held firmly by Phil’s knees at his waist.

The door opened and Natasha came in. “What the hell?” she exclaimed, tossing her bag and room key card down on the dresser and running over to pull at Coulson’s shoulders, trying to get him off Clint. No easy task, he was cursing a blue streak and writhing, fighting her too as she wrapped her arms around his waist and yanked him backwards.

“PHIL!” she broke cover, shouting his real name like that, but Phil was losing it, she’d had to get his attention. “Stop this, he’s still hurt. Can’t you see that? You’re hurting him.” There was blood trickling down into Clint’s eye, his stitches had apparently split open in the tussle. Until she mentioned it, he had been too busy warding off Phil’s punches to notice it. Now his eye stung, he wiped at it with the back of his hand.

Coulson spun in her arms, rolled, kicked out and caught her by surprise and they went down onto the rug. She rolled them over until she was on top and slapped him several times until he suddenly went slack under her. They were both panting for breath. Phil sprawled limply on the floor, his eyes closed. His clenched fists were the only sign of his remaining tension. 

“Okay, baby?” she whispered, momentarily gentle as she cupped his cheeks with her hands. 

“He almost died,” Phil whispered brokenly.

“Yeah. But he didn’t. Shhh.” Natasha slid off him and sat on the floor, gathering him up into her arms and rocking him, kissing his forehead as he clung to her and buried his face in her neck, shaking silently as he tried to gather himself together again. 

Clint stroked a hand over Phil’s back and caught Natasha’s eyes. “We can’t do this. We’re done here. I’m calling for an extraction.”

“No,” Phil whispered, looking up at him. “If we do that, they might break us up. Fury might not let me keep you guys anymore. I’m okay... I’ll be okay. I’m sorry, I overreacted. I’m sorry. Don’t let them... please.” He straightened up and away from Natasha. “I’m sorry.”

“I can take it, buddy. Really. I’m fine. Nothing we haven’t done before, under better circumstances. If my head didn’t hurt so bad, I might have enjoyed it.” Clint leaned back against the side of the bed and sighed heavily. “I’ll pay you back when we get home. We’ll go for best out of three, since the ref here broke up the match before we finished.” He was glad Tasha had come in when she had, Phil was not himself and Clint didn’t know how to deal with this, not without taking this in another direction that would break all of their standing mission rules. 

Clint closed his eyes and rubbed at his sore head. “We need to regroup, get our shit together here.” 

He heard Tasha moving around, the bed dipped behind him as she sat and then came the sounds of the laptop booting up. “Let me have the coordinates.” He recited the numbers and she typed them in.

“Ferihegy,” she said, referring to the airport. “A hanger in the commercial area.”

“Can we just bring our luggage and leave straight from there?” Clint asked, opening his eyes and looking over at her hopefully.

She snorted. “Sure, you can hold my carry-on while I do the hand-off. Think you can juggle it with your bow?”

“I’ll arrange for the luggage to be picked up,” Phil offered.

“I was joking.”

“Right, of course.” Phil got up and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Tasha glanced at the closed door. “He’ll be fine.” 

He hoped she was right. He was feeling a lot like Phil at the moment, unsure what he would do without the two of them. They needed a break. “After this, I think we should all go somewhere tropical with sand and frozen drinks with paper umbrellas in them.”

“Agreed,” Tasha said, closing the laptop with a click.

~*~

Phil was waiting in a parked rental car two hangers over. Clint had ridden in with him and was now on foot, heading for the back door. Natasha would go through the front to meet their contact and collect the thingamajig.

The back door was standing open. Clint had a Very Bad Feeling™ about this. But he had to go in, to cover Tasha. Adjusting his bow on his shoulder and sliding his 9mm from the holster at the small of his back, he looked around, paying extra attention to the rafters as he slipped through the open door. He edged along a row of packing crates, his eyes in constant motion. Reaching the end of the row, he looked around the edge of a shipping container, only to find himself nose to whisker with a grinning cat-like face. Startled, he took a step back.

“Naughty, naughty,” it said with a heavy accent, and then Clint was grabbed up and hurled through the air. His back hit hard against a crate labeled “Uruguay” and he slid to the floor, blinking at the spots of light in front of his eyes. He rolled quickly as the furry man-beast dove at him, but not quickly enough. It landed on his thighs, sharp claws raking down his back, cutting through the straps of his quiver, his tactical vest and through the black t-shirt he wore beneath it. He twisted and turned but could not dislodge the thing. 

He was not calling for help. Not again. God, he hated Budapest. Third time a charm? Hah! He was never coming back here, if he could help it, if he survived this stupid mission. He was having Phil put it in his file in big red letters: _‘Clint Barton does not do Budapest. Ever!’_

The thing bounced on him once, then leapt off, skittering backwards as Clint got to his knees. His quiver fell to the cement floor beside him. His bow, and thus his primary skill, was useless in close quarters fighting. Luckily, he didn’t need to rely on it, he had other training to fall back on. He didn’t wait for the cat-guy to come at him, he ran forward, head-butting his opponent in what he hoped was the groin. The momentum slammed the thing back against a crate.

It hissed, let out a pained bleat and bent double over him, stabbing at him with those sharp claws. He had apparently guessed correctly about the sensitivity of that spot, there was little force behind the cat-guy’s jabs. Clint was being scratched but not gored. It - he? - tried to get a clawed hand up under his tac vest, aiming for his heart. All bets were off now, holding the thing in place with his body, Clint awkwardly reached down and pulled his knife from the sheath at his hip. He flipped it up and held the blade to the thing’s furry throat.

“Who do you work for?” he demanded.

“ _Fick dich arschloch!_ ” 

“Wrong answer. One more try or I cut you. _I schneide sie,_ understand? Who sent you?”

“I did, to protect my property. Now, release my pet or I shall put a bullet through your head, and rest assured, I will not miss,” a cold voice said from behind him. 

Clint glanced back over his shoulder and saw a tall, dark haired, distinguished looking businessman holding a gun aimed at his forehead. Assessing intent quickly by the man’s eyes, Clint knew he meant what he said, he would pull the trigger. He slowly lowered the knife and pushed away from the cat-man. It snarled at him and gave a wet hiss in his face before lurching over to stand behind the man. 

Wiping a hand over his face, Clint used the motion to activate his radio, leaving the line open. Time to call in the cavalry, again. 

Never living this down.

“Herr Ralmshant, I presume?” Clint remembered the photographs from the files, this was the son of the owner of the Ralmshant Corporation. Out doing his own dirty work, apparently.

“Indeed. Where is the device you have stolen? Return it to me now, and I will allow you to leave.”

“No can do. I didn’t take it.” And even if he had, he wouldn’t be returning it. The Directorate wanted it, he and his team had been tasked to get it. They’d already handed off the first half of the device to Fury. It was long gone from the city. “I’m an innocent bystander. You know, that thing needs a leash. Don’t you have leash laws in Budapest?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Ralmshant’s face, but otherwise, he didn’t react, the gun was still pointed steadily at Clint. “Do not toy with me. Where is it?”

“Uhm... I don’t know, Uruguay, maybe Kazakhstan, possibly Toledo. I’m guessing, of course.” 

Gunfire erupted at the front of the warehouse. Ralmshant tossed his head in the direction of the noise and the furry thing ambled off to investigate. Clint’s fingers itched for his bow. He didn’t like ground work, he preferred being up high, backing up from a distance where he could be of the most use. Direct confrontation was Black Widow’s forte.

Ralmshant fired. He would have made the shot, if he hadn’t been felled by a headshot himself. His aim spoiled, the bullet missed and embedded in the packing crate beside Clint. He looked at the splintered wood, staring in shock at the hole for a moment. 

“Move. Now,” Phil grabbed his arm and dragged him in the direction of the gunfire and the shouting and the cat-like howling echoing at them from the other side of the hanger. 

“You killed him,” Clint said stupidly, glancing back over his shoulder at the dead Ralmshant. He should be dead, again. Twice in as many days. Too close. The near miss had shaken him, he could see his hand shaking when he looked down. 

“Trust me, he was a very, very bad man. Hit the rafters and cover us.” Not even faltering a step, Phil shoved his bow at him, pressing it to his chest. He had dropped it in the scuffle with the cat-thing and hadn’t noticed Phil picking it up. He really needed that vacation. He focused on the bow in his hand. He needed to do his job. He could fall apart later.

Clint veered off and climbed, using the packing crates to get closer to the rafters. He jumped up to catch one of the girders and slid along until he found a position overlooking the chaos below. Natasha was pinned down against a far wall behind a refueling cart, clutching a metallic briefcase to her chest. At least the handoff had been done before the shit hit the fan. 

She looked up and saw him and a relieved smile crossed her face. Now he was where he belonged, where he could do the most good. He shoved aside all thoughts but protecting Natasha. He knocked an arrow and sighted on the cat-thing first. 

It had been attacking their contact person, ripping at his back as it sat on him, much as it had been on Clint’s back earlier. Their contact lacked the protections of quiver and tac vest to take the brunt of the sharp claws, however, and there was blood and gore everywhere. 

Sighting down the arrow, he let it fly. The whistle of it alerted the cat-man and he turned his head to look at just the right moment to take the bolt through the eye. It fell aside, dead instantly. It might have been too late, the damage already done. Judging by the amount of blood and tissue, their contact might not make it. 

Ralmshant had another man, crouched behind the wheel of one of the small jets that took up the entire front of the hanger. He was out of Natasha’s line of fire, and protected from Clint by the bulk of the aircraft. 

“Widow, go,” Clint said into his radio pick up as he saw movement. Phil was moving into position to cover her. “Shooter at left rear wheel assembly,” he said for Phil’s benefit.

Natasha darted out, keeping low as she zig-zagged across the hanger towards the partially open door. Ralmshant’s guy leaned out from behind the tire, and Phil dropped him with a single shot, and then ran after Natasha. He paused and checked their contact for a pulse and moved on after shaking his head negatively, the guy was dead. Holding his position, Clint waited to be sure there were no other hostiles in the woodwork before climbing down and following. 

What a mess. He tuned his radio to the command channel and recited his ID code. “We need a cleanup on aisle five, Ferenc Liszt, building three two two. Bring body bags, four on the ground.” 

“Why us?” Maria Hill snapped, coming onto the line. Usually, they would have left it all up to the local civilian or military authorities to puzzle out.

He snickered and snapped a photo of the dead cat-thing with the camera embedded in his sunglasses, with a quick tap to a key on the frame near his ear, the photo was sent to the S.H.I.E.L.D. server. “I sent a preview, come or don’t come, I don’t much care. Leave it for the locals to find, if you aren’t interested. I’m sure it will make the papers.” He clicked off the radio and headed out after his partners. It was time to get the hell out of Budapest.

~*~

“I hate tequila,” Tasha said.

“Is that why you’re on your sixth margarita?” Phil slurred, gripping his own fourth fruity, frozen drink tightly in his hands as he attempted to get the straw into his mouth.

“I’m surprised you can still count that high,” Clint snorted, wriggling his butt in the sand beneath his beach towel as he rolled over and looked up at his partners. He had opted to stick with beer - someone had to walk them back to their room at some point. He had appointed himself designated walker. 

“It’s just not fair, that tolerance of hers.” Phil set his drink down very purposefully and deliberately on the small table between his chair and Natasha’s. “Hey, you owe me a rematch,” he said suddenly, and threw himself at Clint, rolling him off the towel and into the hot sand.

“Hey, how about some warning next time!” Clint laughed as Phil managed to land on top, pinching his ribs and grabbing for his hands. 

Phil shook his head from side to side. “Uh-uh, I need every advantage I can get.” He got a hold of Clint’s wrists - because Clint let him - and pinned them down in the sand, leaning forward with all his weight in an attempt to keep him there. “Tasha, count it off!”

“One. Are you going to let him win, Barton? Two. Come now, you call this a match? Three. I could do better with my hands tied behind my back. Four. I have done better, actually. Five. Match to Phil.”

Clint grinned up at his more than slightly inebriated partner. “We’re even now, one to one.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Tasha said, and threw herself at Phil, knocking him off Clint and landing in the sand, giggling as both men turned on her. Sand, beer and beach towel went flying as it turned into a violent wrestling match, each of them trying to get the upper hand. Tasha was shrieking with laughter, having just enough of a buzz to lose some of her usual inhibitions. 

Knowing where most of her sensitive spots were, Clint started tickling her as Phil was trying to grab her arms and pin her. They played hard, they always had. She kicked out at him as he tickled her foot, catching him in the jaw. He managed to keep his hold and bit her ankle. 

She kicked again and scrambled out from under Phil as he tried to flatten her, spinning around and sitting on Phil’s back. She grinned up at Clint as Phil flailed beneath her. “I win.”

“You half win. You still have to pin me.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” she said, gathering herself to leap at Clint. He was ready for it when she moved, opening his arms to catch her. He held her tightly, really not interested in continuing the play-fight.

“Do you really want to do this here?” he whispered close to her ear. “We have a perfectly good room, and mission rules are not in effect on vacation.” He ran one hand down her spine and then up again.

Natasha went still in his arms and then leaned back and looked at him, licking at her lower lip as she considered it. She slid her hands over his bare shoulders and down slowly. “After I win!” She caught him by surprise, moving quickly and flipping him down, straddling his hips. 

He tried to throw her, but she was serious about it this time. “This was really supposed to be between me and Phil,” he complained mildly, watching Phil settle himself in the lounge chair to watch. 

“Oh, I don’t mind. I like watching!” Phil remarked cheerily as he sipped at his margarita. “She’s got you.”

“I know she’s got me.”

Phil crowed, “Ah-ha, you admit defeat!”

“If I do, can we go back to the room?” Clint looked up at Natasha as she held his wrists and shifted against him. Natasha pouted and Clint put a little more effort into the impromptu wrestling match, trying to get loose, to make her happy. 

After all, they were on vacation, they should be happy. Tasha’s warm body against his under the tropical sun was going a long way towards shoving aside the memories of Budapest. They’d made it out, they were all still together. For the moment, life was good.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Also fills a few prompts:  
> Kink Bingo: Rough Body Play  
> Hurt Comfort Bingo: Bullet Wounds  
> Angst Bingo: Under Cover  
> Avengers Tables: Gun Shot


End file.
